


maestro

by behindtintedglass



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 07:14:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12552032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/behindtintedglass
Summary: I envy the violin.





	maestro

 

 

My friend, Sherlock Holmes, is not human.

This observation may seem shockingly cruel. On the contrary, it is perhaps the the best compliment I can give the greatest man I have ever known. Granted, it is not an entirely detached, scientific observation, for it is certainly colored by sentiment. But it is not made in jest, and I am wholly serious. And it is not a conclusion without adequate proof. I have travelled to three continents and, due to the nature of my profession that is both medical and military, I have faced people at their best and at their worst, in varying cultures. I have formed every kind of relationship with them: easy friendships, passionate romances, heated rivalries. And yet even now that my experience of people has expanded to include the intricate webs of criminals and law-enforcers, and I have proceeded to rub elbows with people of extraordinary character – from the royalty to the homeless, from the gullible to the sadistic – no one has come close to the singularity of the world’s only consulting detective.

It would not surprise me at all if he remains to be the sole holder of this self-proclaimed title even in the centuries to come. He is perhaps the only human to have ever perfected the marriage of science and art. Many a great men and women can boast expertise in one or the other, but scarcely ever both, for the dictations of logical faculty seems directly in contradiction with the whims of artistic creativity.

Not so with Holmes. He seems to be the exception to the rule, as he effortlessly showcases the seamless blend of intellect and artistry. He is as masterful with the violin as he is with his deductions; as focused in his compositions as he is with his experiments; as intent in his concertos as he is in his cases.

The machinations of his mind remain a source of endless fascination to me. I can never hope to fathom its complexity, but I see a glimmer of it in his gaze, for his eyes are like glass – cool, clear, and piercing. The metaphor of the eyes being the window to the person’s core has never been more apt than when it is applied to my friend, as his eyes reveal the tiniest glimpse of a genius at work. Never have I seen his eyes as alive as when he is in pursuit of a mystery, and it is when he divines the answers to seemingly impossible questions that they truly shine.

And yet in as much as I am afforded a tiny window to his mind, the inward translucency of his eyes is heavily offset by its outward transparency, so powerfully staggering it is decidedly inhuman. With just the merest glance, he unravels you so thoroughly it’s almost as if in speaking to you, he is actually introducing you to yourself.   
  
This does not always land him in good graces, as he unwittingly tends to unearth the most deeply buried skeletons. He doesn’t just sees you, he sees through you, and he has no qualms calling it as he quite literally sees it.

However, I believe that his frank and brutal honesty is not deliberately manipulative nor tactless, and the truths he reveals are not meant to blackmail or hurt. I think he simply cannot help it. Whenever his eyes take on that manic light I have come to recognize, it is the telltale sign that his brain is processing at a speed that is a hundred times faster than even he can catch up with. Most of the time, he only becomes aware of the implications of his observations when the words have already escaped his lips and have touched upon a hitherto undiscovered weakness within the target of his observations.

It isn’t that he is uncaring or unaffected by people. It will surprise the public to know that I paint him as an unfeeling machine in my manuscripts because that is our agreement. That is what he asked of me. And to the best of my meager ability with words, I can only comply with his humble request.

How can I not, when I see evidence of how he mourns each time I am sadly (and often secretly) the sole audience in his private concertos? How can I expose to the public this vulnerability? If his eyes are a window to his exceptional mind, his hands are the manifestation of the depths of his soul. For he doesn’t play the violin – he becomes one with it.

The music that flows from his deft, nimble fingers is just a hint of the maelstrom of emotions he is keeping at bay, yet even then, I am overwhelmed by the intensity of it. My limbs tremble along with his quavering notes, my heartstrings are tugged by the sweep of his bow, my body sways with his in the crescendos and allegros, and my whole soul reaches out to him as he stills in his andantes.

And when I lose the ability to breath when he plays a glissando like it is a hitch in his chest, like he is trying his very best to stop his soul from crying, until finally he holds out a note like the broken wail of despair, I can only helplessly watch as he quietly shatters to pieces.

I envy the violin.

Not in the most obvious manner – in the sensual glide of the bow over the strings, the caress of his cheek against the polished wood, the power of his nimble fingers as he pushes and presses and strokes – although I would be lying if I say it does not affect me. Indeed, it affects me greatly. So much that I am grateful for the solitude 221B offers whenever he performs these private concerts. If he does this out in the open, I have no doubt that any Yarder who takes one look at me will immediately divine the intentions behind my longing gaze and will rightfully clap handcuffs on my wrists for the undeniable affection and regard written on my face as patently obvious as my tales. They are all, of course, for him, because of him. For such a man of keen observation, I wonder sometimes at how he fails to recognize that I am all but worshipping him.

I have no desire to be separated from my dear friend, though. I cannot let anyone take me away from him, even if it is someone like Lestrade. Especially not then. I do not think I can bear the look of betrayal and blame on the Inspector’s face if the most brilliant man I have ever met is reduced to ruins just because I cannot control my damn heart.

Especially now.. now that he is once again lost in his music.

This.. this is why I envy the violin.

My friend prides himself in the stately image he presents to the public. He is admired, but untouchable – a deity to look up to and call upon. And if he deigns you worthy of his attention, it’s like you have been blessed by the gods themselves. His brilliance is not of this earth, and I count myself unbelievably, humbly fortunate to have been graced with his daily presence, let alone his friendship.

But here.. When he plays his beloved violin with the worshipful caress of a lover, he is stripped naked and bare.

Gone is the deity of cool logic. That veneer is shed off to reveal something much more beautiful. Much more divine.

Here, within the walls of our shared home… Sherlock Holmes allows himself to be human.

I do not believe my friend to be as emotionless as he fools the public and himself to be. Science may be his passion, but art is in his blood. No ordinary man can make minuets and sonatas sound like they are the songs of the soul and pieces of the universe. No man who can play so devoutly and all-consumingly can also be devoid of emotion.

Such focused and fine-tuned devotion can only come from a truly great heart.

And I wonder.. Dear god, how I wonder, when he closes his eyes like that and lets himself sway to the music of his own making and loses himself in the arpeggios and crescendos he wraps around himself..

I wonder what fuels his passion, his reverence, his focus, his devotion.

And when he allows the violin to carry him, be one with him, and soar to unreachable dimensions with him..

This. This is why I envy the violin.

 

 


End file.
